I’ve been in resistance training. Or at least that’s what it feels like. Everyday I am actively working not to hear the increasingly loud and rapid tick… tock… ticktock… tickTOCK… TICKTOCK… TICKTOCK TICK TOCKTICKTOCK!!!!
AHHHHHHHHHH!
Ok….sorry about that. It’s just that August is here, fully entrenched and–OMG It’s the 18th already! That means August is actually almost half over…
AHHHHHHHHHH!
Oops! There I went again. This seems to be happening with increasing frequency! What I’m trying to get across is that I’m trying to live fully in each moment, resisting succumbing to the ever-increasing, inexorable pull of the great whirlpool of the impending school year…
but as each day passes, the closer it gets, and the stronger the pull. I am working frantically diligently to avoid future-thinking and immerse myself in the present and the remaining gift of free time. Occasionally, I’m successful, and often that’s with the help of time outside and with my camera. And lots and lots of reading. But, as that pool of time diminishes, it’s getting harder and harder.
To be clear, I really am looking forward to many aspects of returning to school (more so than in many past years), but the relentless pace is NOT one of them. I dread the constant rushrushrush with such limited time and energy remaining outside of school hours and responsibilities. Sigh.
So, I’m curious (desperate? lol). Can you throw me a lifeline? What do you do to keep things sane when you return to the hustle and bustle of another school year? Do you have a number one tip? Maybe a “school hack” to increase efficiency and productivity?
Do you remember that old Staples ad? It was a back-to-school ad that showed a parent gleefully throwing school supplies into a cart with two glum children following along behind them. While I’m not thrilled with the glum child aspect, I still think the ad was amusing. Take a peek to refresh your memory!
I’m pretty sure I look a bit like that parent whenever I am shopping for office supplies. I’m not sending any children off to school these days, but I’m an office supply addict! Pens, folders, notebooks? They’re my jam!
So, last week, with great anticipation, I went to Staples for the first time this summer. I walked in feeling the excitement grow. What would I find this year? I lingered in the aisles, picking up and putting down various items. Considering this. Considering that. I kept Investigating all my options. Black pens? Blue pens? Red pens? … All!!! I dumped multiple packages into my cart.
Next, I debated about crayons. I don’t usually have individual crayon boxes, but I’d been considering it. They were on sale… I did the math. I could always add them to the community bin if I didn’t want to use them individually. Decision made! Twenty boxes of crayons were added to my growing pile.
After making many more decisions, changing my mind, trying to remember what I’d already ordered, reconsidering, adding, removing, etc., I finally made my way to the counter to pay. I piled up my tower of crayon boxes alongside the other items.
“Whoa! That’s a lot of crayons!” a small voice piped up from behind me.
I turned from the counter to see a wide-eyed young boy, standing next to his grandmother.
“Are those all for you?!” he asked, eyes bulging.
“No,” I smiled at him. “I’m a teacher and these are for my classroom. Are you getting ready to go to school, too?”
He nodded, holding tightly onto his own teetering tower of supplies. “I’m in precool.”
“You were in preschool last year,” his grandmother corrected. “This year, you’ll be in Kindergarten.”
“I’m gonna be in Kindergarten,” he said.
“Oh,” I said. “I teach second grade. But Kindergarten is pretty awesome! Are you excited?”
“Yes,” he nodded enthusiastically.
After a moment, he looked up at me again. “Will you be there?”
Kids and office supplies…best combo ever! No wonder I love being a teacher! 🙂
In her typically generous fashion, Georgia Heard has begun to share monthly writing prompt calendars. For July she created a “Month of Tiny Letters.” Each day offers an invitation to write a tiny letter. Yesterday’s prompt was “Send love to your tired self.”
Dear Tired Self, A nap is a gift – not an indictment.
Lean in. Close your eyes. Let the hammock gently rock you into easy dreams.
Three days. Two naps in the hammock. I’m doing something right!
After a fairly frenetic start to summer, I’m still struggling to find my summer rhythm. So far it’s mostly eluded me. I had all sorts of good intentions about getting back into a blogging routine, but once again, a few weeks have passed since I’ve posted.
In the last couple of days, inspired by On Being’s “The Hope Portal”, I’ve been trying to focus on finding “moments/sightings/experiences that bring flashes of light into your day.” I’ve also been trying to get a sort of routine in place–writing, walking, photography, etc. Yesterday morning I forced myself to take a walk, and found, as one usually does, a glimmer of joy.
After a bit of a writing dry spell, I wanted to write about making jam today. It’s a subject I’ve visited before (here and here and even once in the Portland Press Herald.) and no doubt will again. So, I pulled up my blog this morning, determined to write and to get back into blogging more regularly. I knew it had been a while since I had written, but I was shocked to see that my last post was at the end of May! That’s more than two months ago! 1/6 of a year!! How can time pass so quickly? (Update: My husband has informed me that my math skills are a bit off, and this is closer to one month than two. I’m not sure whether to feel better or not! lol)
I’ve been thinking about time a lot lately. Perhaps it’s prompted by the arrival of summer, which is always jarring in a teacher’s life, or perhaps it’s where I am in my own life, and where my loved ones are. It’s also been a common theme in books I’ve been reading. Time passing. It’s our one true constant, isn’t it?
I’ve been considering how the nature of time changes–how on some days, time visits you in a leisurely way, curls around you and tucks you into its slow unfolding, and on other days it whips past, barely seen, leaving you breathless in its wake. Most days it falls somewhere in between.
Perhaps that’s why traditions, like jam making, matter so much to me. They’re like small anchors in the tide of time. Or maybe small flags of proclamation. Jam making literally feels like a way to capture time in a bottle, to savor at a future time of your choosing. Ray Bradbury says it best, when writing about dandelion wine in his book of the same name:
“And there, row upon row, with the soft gleam of flowers opened at morning, with the light of this June sun glowing through a faint skin of dust, would stand the dandelion wine. Peer through it at the wintry day – the snow melted to grass, the trees were reinhabitated with bird, leaf, and blossoms like a continent of butterflies breathing on the wind. And peering through, color sky from iron to blue.
Hold summer in your hand, pour summer in a glass, a tiny glass of course, the smallest tingling sip for children; change the season in your veins by raising glass to lip and tilting summer in” ― Ray Bradbury, Dandelion Wine
(After reading Bradbury’s writing again, it’s hard to continue writing this piece. What a master he is!)
At any rate, last summer we traveled extensively and I missed strawberry season entirely. This winter I found myself buying jam for the first time in years. I think I bought every flavor except strawberry, and I admit it was fun to have some variety. Still, this year I hoped to make jam again. As we moved further into June, I trawled through the local U-pick farm’s FB posts, eagerly searching for updates. Finally, after days of tantalizing “Soon!” posts and pictures of dangling berries, there it was:
Today’s the day!!! Opening Day for strawberry u-pick season!!
FB photo from Fairwinds Farm, Bowdoinham, Maine
The post appeared on Monday night. The fields were opening the following morning, which was the last day of school, and also the Tuesday before out-of-town visitors arrived and we hosted a party for 100ish people at our home. Over the following days, no matter how I juggled, there was simply no time for picking and jam-making. Things were starting to look grim on that front.
Once the party (such fun!) was over, visitors remained, and then the fields were closed for heat waves and then rainfall. There were sad commentaries about unfruitful harvests. But fear not, Dear Reader! For on this past Sunday morning, the grey clouds looked blanketing, not threatening. Temperatures were not supposed to rise into heat advisory zone. The local farm’s Facebook page said picking was light to moderate, but they were optimistically opening for the day. I set out for the fields first thing.
Picking strawberries tends to be a layered experience for me, and that morning was no exception. I crouched in my chosen row, avoiding puddles, searching for berries. A veery called repeatedly from nearby shrubs. Two cat birds swooped and dove nearby. As always, I listened to the voices drift over the fields from other pickers. Most people were in small groups or partnerships. I used to pick with my mother-in-law and children, but in recent years, due to distance and scheduling, I’ve been picking alone, steeped in memories.
Berry picking is a treasure hunt. This year it felt especially so, as the berries were smaller and fewer in quantity. Every so often I stumbled upon a patch of glowing red berries, but more often I was brushing aside damp leaves, searching for hidden ones. Sometimes I was rewarded. Sometimes not. But bit by bit, my green cardboard quart baskets filled up. Eventually I was finished picking and I headed home to make jam.
There was no rush. I had nowhere to be. No pending commitments. Just a morning free to pick berries and make jam.
Still, soon enough, I found myself hurrying, thinking about being done and not so much about doing. After months of crazy to-do lists, I’m working really hard to catch myself when I’m not being in the moment, not experiencing and appreciating it as it unfolds. I’m working to switch gears, to lean into the moment at hand, and not think ahead to the next thing, or the next step. So, on this day, I caught myself rushing, and then deliberately slowed down.
Walking out to the back yard to harvest rhubarb, I focused on the damp weight of the encroaching vegetation against my legs. I felt the gentle scrape of the massive leaves against my hands as I parted them and reached low into the plant. Heard the snip of scissors cutting through each ruby stalk and the subsequent tree fall of it timbering over. Back in the house, I focused on the flow of water over my hands as I washed each stalk. The crisp slice of the knife. The gathering pile of chopped pieces on the scarred cutting board. Then the hulling of each strawberry and the soft thunk as it landed atop the growing heap in the large, white bowl. The sticky red coating my fingers. The soft squishy sounds of mashing berries together, and the rush of juices. I savored the grit of sugar against my finger as I swept it across the top of the measuring cup. Watched it spill into the pot. Marveled at how the color transformed and intensified. Heard the steady thump of the spoon as I stirred, and the eventual gentle burble of a rolling boil. The heavy scent perfumed the kitchen.
All these sensations intermingled with reminiscences of previous jam making adventures with my mother in law and my children. Even as I tried to stay in the present, grounding myself in sensory experiences and willfully turning away from the tug of the future, the past slipped in. I welcomed it. Rather than undermining the moment, it enriched it. I lingered in the sweetness of memories of collaborative berry picking and jam-making. As I worked, I smiled, remembering how a couple of years ago, my youngest daughter and I spontaneously began to recite Bruce Degen’s “Jamberry” in the fields as we picked:
One berry, two berry, pick me a Blueberry ! Hatberry, Shoeberry in my Canoeberry; Under the bridge and over the dam, Looking for Berries – Berries for Jam !
Finally, at the end of this morning, the jam jars lined the island. Row after row. I cleaned up the kitchen as they cooled, somehow enjoying the wash-up as an extension of the creation. I wiped away streaks of strawberry from the counters and scrubbed sticky remnants of jam from spoons and pots. As I worked, every so often one of the jars emitted a soft sealing clink. One of the best sounds ever!
Later, as the day drew to a close, I stacked the jars of cooled jam in the wooden pantry. I admired the soft glow of berries through the quilted jars, and anticipated savoring their flavor on dark winter days.
To an outside observer, this was a solitary endeavor. One moment in time. I know, though, that it was so much more than that. Picking each berry, washing, cooking, cleaning and bottling filled my morning. But making jam on this particular Sunday also, somehow, transcended time. It united past and present, and fused them together into a glorious, sweet preserve–one I know I will savor as time and the seasons pass.
I flinch violently as something hits the window. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a blur of feathers bounce off the glass and tumble downward. I jump up and race over to the door. A small sparrow sits stunned on the stone step. I open the door to get closer and check on it. When I do so, it flies up onto a nearby perch on the rugosa roses. That’s a good sign, but I imagine it shaking its head and thinking, “What the hell just happened!?”
I always feel awful when this happens, and I want to protest. “There are decals on the window! Pay attention!”
But I imagine the bird was caught up in flight, lost in its world, unaware of possible danger, until…THWACK!
I wonder if it will be okay. How it will move forward into the day. How long it will take to recover from the impact. Will it fly more carefully in the future–perhaps hesitate to lift off from that secure branch? Or will it launch itself joyfully into the air, thankful to still be able to fly?
I empathize with the bird. A lot. About two weeks ago, I hit my own sort of window, at least figuratively. I was teaching my class toward the end of the day. Everything was fine. Until it wasn’t. Suddenly there was a black line snaking across the vision in my right eye. Within moments, it looked like someone had scribbled over the world in big, thick lines with a black marker. Within about 5-10 minutes, that had faded away, and essentially only light and shadow remained.
It turns out I’d had a sudden retinal tear that required emergency eye surgery.
THWACK!
Suddenly, my world changed.
My husband says, “What happens to the mind, happens to the body. And what happens to the body, happens to the mind.”
Suffice it to say, it all threw me for a loop. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally.
I’m on a good path to recovery now, and am grateful for oh-so-many things: my family, my colleagues (who had to write my sub plans for over a week!), having two eyes, visiting friends, medical insurance, access to health care, paid leave, compassionate surgical staff, etc. Oh, and over and over again, I was deeply thankful for the beauty that surrounds my home. So many birds and various creatures flew and ambled through my yard during my long days of not reading, not driving, not bending or lifting, etc. When I wasn’t huddled on the couch, eyes closed, seeking to lose myself in an audiobook, I was most often looking out the windows.
Ultimately, I don’t see the sparrow take off from its perch, but when I look later, it’s gone. I’m going to assume there was a happy ending. I’m pretty sure I’m going to have one, too, but I’ll admit, right now I’m keeping a cautious eye out for unexpected impacts. You just never know.
Of course, chances are, I won’t see it coming. (Thwack!) But if it does come (and something surely will, because…life), chances are also good that I’ll have the support and resources to deal with it. So, I’m moving a little tentatively through my days right now, but I’m seeing the world through a lens of gratitude. And these days, I’m also beyond grateful for all that I can see.
This past week was our April break and with time at home, I was able to see all of the spring visitors stopping by. Our feeders were buzzing nonstop with birds, all sporting their finest breeding plumage. The bright yellows of goldfinches, raspberry-hues of purple finches, brilliant blues of bluebirds and bluejays, scarlets of cardinals and other assorted hues spotted the branches of nearby trees like colorful buds. Beneath the feeders, the newly arrived white-throated sparrows scratched at the leaf litter and periodically sang out their distinctive song: “Oh Sam Peabody Peabody Peabody!” An eastern towhee unexpectedly stopped by to do the same. I’ve spotted yellow-rumped and palm warblers flitting by as well. The air is filled with song!
It’s such a spectacular time of year, and having time off to enjoy it is such a bonus. I was able to visit local marshes and ponds and was thrilled to see great egrets, snowy egrets, glossy ibises and more! The turtles are back and the tadpoles are growing. Every day the grass gets greener and the landscape is clearly shifting to technicolor. It’s such a dynamic time of year.
Each day seems to bring new visitors. This past Sunday morning a turkey wandered into our garden to join in the fun and later in the day a pileated woodpecker stopped by to feed on the suet. (They are regulars in the surrounding area, but not often in the house zone.) The osprey are back in the neighborhood and we’ve seen several nesting pair around town. Our neighbors have seen a Baltimore oriole already, so I’ve put up some orange slices to lure them in, and my hummingbird feeders are filled and placed in anticipation of the ruby throat’s imminent arrival. I never know who’s going to be visiting when I look out my window!
Yesterday, the warmest of the year’s weather came to visit–light breeze, 70 degrees, blue skies and sunshine! After school, I took a detour to the hammock with an apple and a book. Within moments, I was swaying beneath the trees, slipping into relaxation. Ah, bliss!
I hadn’t been there long when I was interrupted.
“Hey, Molly!” Kurt yelled from the front yard.
“Yeah?”
“Did you by any chance bring a fish home today?”
“What?”
“There’s a fish in the yard. Right next to my truck.”
I sat up quickly, careful not to spill out of the hammock.
“A fish. In the yard? A big one?”
“It’s pretty big. I think it’s a blue gill. How in the heck did it get here?”
I had to see this! I I struggled to stand up, discarding my bowl of apple slices and book.
“I’ve heard of people finding fish in their yards before.” I called out while grabbing my phone, knowing I’d want to document the moment with a picture. “Do you think an osprey dropped it?”
“I don’t know…maybe?”
“Are there any talon marks or punctures?”
I kept up a steady stream of questions until I made it out to the front yard, and could check it out for myself. Sure enough, there it was… a good sized fish in the grass.
Kurt nudged it over with his foot. There were no noticeable talon marks or any indication that it had been carried by an osprey or eagle. We looked at each other, perplexed, and then both looked up at the clear blue sky above us.
What in the world?!
We have no answers to this mystery. Like I said, at this time of year, each day brings new visitors.
The alarm trills with bird song at 4:15 am. I can’t say I spring out of bed, but I’m somewhat closer to grin than groan. Today, I’m going to welcome the day at the marsh. I’m in happy anticipation of seeing egrets and herons, glossy ibis and who knows what else. I’ve been feeling the pull of the marsh for weeks now, but rainy (and snowy) and busy weekends have kept me away. Even as I rub the sleep away from my eyes, I feel my spirits lifting.
The sun rises well before 6 am these days, and the marsh is about 45 minutes away. It’s in the 30s now, but headed up toward 60 later. I’m uncertain what to wear, but eventually opt for layers, and dress hurriedly. I pour my coffee in a to-go cup, detour to tuck a hand warmer in my coat pocket, and grab my camera. Before too much time has passed, I’m in the car, driving southward. The moon glows overhead, an oddly shaped egg bright in the sky. Soon dawn will chase the dark away over the horizon.
Yesterday I mentioned to Kurt that my shoulders have been living up by my ears these days. No matter how often I consciously relax them, the unrelenting tension of these days pulls them up again. Even now, at the beginning of break, driving to where I want to go, I realize my shoulders are taut with tension. Consciously I pull them down, breathe. I remind myself that my most pressing decision right now is where I will go after the marsh. Will I also go to the beach? Will I take myself out to breakfast? It’s early for warblers, but I could visit some likely spots. The morning is lightening around me and options abound. I settle my shoulders lower, loosen my grip on the steering wheel, and drive toward the new day.
Later I find a surprise message at the bottom of my coffee cup:
It feels like the perfect way to end my morning, and the perfect message to keep in mind as I unwrap the gift of this week.
Every April the Portland Museum of Art dazzles spring-craving senses with “Art in Bloom”. They invite local florists to interpret works of art with floral designs. Each arrangement has a placard that lists the inspiring art work and includes a written statement from the florist. There’s also a list of materials used to create the piece: flowers, vines, bark, stone, etc. Ekphrastic floral design!
This past Friday afternoon while a solo violinist played in the background, I wandered through the museum with my friend and one of my daughters. I had debated attending, as doing anything on a Friday night feels challenging to me. After making plans a couple of weeks ago, I’d been looking forward to the event, but I’d also second guessed myself time and again. And again! The lure of an early evening at home is always strong. Still, I’d made it!
We meandered along with no particular plan, following the flow of our random footsteps, enjoying each piece as we came upon it. As we walked along, sometimes tendrils of scent would beckon us forward, and sometimes it was a splash of color. The hum of other voices filled the galleries, along with the sweet strains of music from the violinist.
As we approached each piece, we’d examine it, trying to figure out from shape, color, materials, etc. what piece of art work inspired it. Sometimes it was quite obvious, and at other times it was tricky to determine. One piece was inspired by a brooch! It felt sort of like a treasure hunt, and I found myself stepping faster as I approached each gallery, wondering what we’d find there.
To be honest, even without special exhibits, museums can overwhelm me. There’s so much to see and absorb! Sometimes I began to wander through a bit superficially, floating on the sea of sensory input, enjoying myself, but not fully connecting with each piece. Sometimes I found myself distracted by watching the people, or listening in to snippets of conversation. As we moved along, at one point I overheard a woman exclaim:
“No, stop! Don’t educate me. I don’t want to be educated!”
I had to laugh, but I could actually relate to that sentiment. It was tempting to immerse myself in the pool of creative energy around me and simply revel in the energy and buzz of color, scent, sound, shape, etc.
At one point, though, my daughter drew my attention to the artist’s statement for the sculpture below, The Dead Pearl Diver. Reading about the florist’s process drew me in to study the duo more carefully, and it quickly became one of my favorites. The florist talked about how they were drawn to the white marble and wanted to focus on playing with texture in this piece, rather than color– “…each flower gives the eye another dimension to look through.” They deliberately chose smooth larger blossoms to evoke the draped limbs of the pearl diver, and rougher petalled flowers to evoke the stone upon which he lies. The more I looked, the more I appreciated the nuance of this pairing.
Here are a few more pairings for you to enjoy.
There were 20 pieces overall, scattered throughout the museum, and we’re pretty sure we saw all of them. It was a wonderful chance to escape the chilly April weather (more snow was forecast for Saturday morning!) and enjoy a hint of spring. The evening was a feast for the senses and an immersion in creativity. I’ve been thinking about it ever since, and I’m so glad I went!
My class tends to walk in casual straight line. I know they’re supposed to be super straight, (I see a few (or at least one) intense judgy looks). The problem is that I always think of a Georgia Heard poem I once read. The poem, titled Straight Line, begins like this: All the kindergarteners walk to recess and back in a perfectly straight line no words between them. They must stifle their small voices, their laughter, they must stop the little skip in their walk, they must not dance or hop or run or exclaim. They must line up at the water fountain straight, and in perfect form, like the brick wall behind them...
See what I mean? Ever since reading that poem, I’ve cared a little less about how straight my classroom line is. I more suggest a straight line than require one. I mean it’s a goal, because it’s technically a school expectation, but it’s not one I’m too fussed about. I do want the kids to be quiet, because there’s other learning going on around them, but I don’t require military precision in our formation.
Unfortunately, lately we have become a large, amorphous mass, taking up more than our fair amount of hallway space. Reminders haven’t been working. It was time to straighten up our act, so to speak.
So, as we headed out to recess one day last week, I reminded the class that our goal was to walk out to recess in a single file today and to be quiet while doing so. We lined up in the room, and after another reminder, we headed out of the room and into the hallway. The class was doing pretty well. I gave them a thumbs up. One student edged out of line.
“Get back in line, G.” shouted N, another one of my students, who consistently vies for my job. It was not even 10 am and this was the 178th time he’d redirected classmates. Or was it the 179th? It should be noted that he doesn’t mind attempting to redirect me, too, if he thinks I’ve gotten out of line.
I pushed repeat on my regular refrain, “N, you’re responsible for you.” Then in a bid to change things up and maybe add a bit of humor to the mix, added, “That’s my job. That’s why they pay me every two weeks.”
Several of the students looked up at me quizzically. Especially O. He opened his mouth to speak, but I put a finger to my lips as a silent reminder. We kept moving forward, down the hallway and around the corner. Our line was looking pretty good, and it was quiet, too!
“Wait!” O. suddenly burst out, a few steps later, apparently unable to do so any longer. “Do you pay to come here or do they pay you?”
I stopped in my tracks and looked down at him. My brain struggled to make sense of what he’d just said. Clearly, I needed to clarify. “O., are you asking if I pay to come to school and teach or if I get paid?”
O. looked at me earnestly and nodded. A few kids near him nodded, too.
After a speechless moment or two, I asked, “Well, what do you think?”
There was a pause and then C. spoke up. “I think you pay,” he said. A few other students nodded in agreement.
Replay that speechless moment or two.
“Well,” I finally said, as I started to move forward again, “This is my job, and most people get paid to do their jobs, right?”
“Yeah,” O. said somewhat doubtfully, “But you had to pay to apply, right?”
“No, actually I didn’t.”
They looked at me like they didn’t believe me, or like I was the confused one. We’d already clearly lost the battle on a silent walk, and to be honest, I’d contributed to the conversation as much as they had. As I gathered up my spinning thoughts (Are they that confused or do they think they’re that cute?), we continued moving forward.
We were out the door to recess before I could clear my head enough to determine if our line was straight or not. I’m pretty sure we were in a clump again, my straight line ambitions blown to the wind.
This all reminded me of an anecdote my colleague shared last year. She was drinking an iced coffee at recess duty. One of her second grade students approached. “What’s that?” he asked.
“It’s an iced coffee,” she answered. “I picked it up on the way to work.”
“Oh,” he said. Then, after a brief pause, he asked politely, “So, where do you work?”
Nix the comfort zone 